He left home early, knowing full well time was of the essence. Though still a young man, he'd performed this task enough times to know the habits and haunts of the whitetailed deer by instinct. He was keenly aware that soon the animals' nocturnal activity period would end and the deer would move back into daytime bedding areas deep within the inner recesses of the creek swamp.

He must, he told himself, arrive at his chosen stand site along the narrow, hoof-worn trail before first light. From there, if all went well, he might intercept the deer as they returned from the creek bottom's honeysuckle thickets and acorn-laden white oak groves.

He paused outside his doorway long enough to extract a handful of cold leftovers from last evening's cookpot. He was not hungry, but should he find it necessary to hunt all day, the nourishment would be welcomed later. He ate hurriedly, then drew his long hair back behind his ears, securing the resulting shoulderlength bunch-lock with a thin strip of supple buckskin.

He looked eastward and read the sky with a practiced eye, quickly discerning he had slept a trifle long this morning. Sunrise was near. Thus informed, he entered the surrounding forest at a trot. A superb physical specimen, he could hold such a pace indefinitely. His respiration and heart rate would be but slightly above normal when he reached his destination. Dark as it was, he carried no light. He needed none. The forest was a friend, an extension of Earth Mother and, therefore, of himself. For 25 seasons he had known it intimately.

He skirted the familiar bramble thicket where, as a child, he had been deliberately placed by his grandfather and left to find his way out on his own. He crossed the sluggish, blackwater creek at the ford, upstream from the bubbling spring where he learned to swim, another skill acquired through his own devices. The fallen leaves carpeting the forest floor crackled, but not loudly, beneath his practiced, light-footed treading.

He drew abreast of the deer trail a short distance from his intended stand, taking care not to cross it. There might be a wary buck already tucked away in the adjacent thick brush. Earlier precaution would be for naught if he spooked the animal and allowed its harried flight to warn the approaching others.

He stopped short of the trail he sensed the herd would use and followed the path a little to one side, careful to leave it free of human scent. He moved swiftly yet quietly, satisfied now that he was at last where he wanted to be with time to spare.

Arriving at the head of the trail leading into the whitetails' bedding grounds, the young man underwent a marked transformation. He instantly became one with the forest, invisible, eyes afire with a primordial, predatory gleam. No movement, not even the cocking of his right arm, was discernible to the unsuspecting doe moving toward him.

He returned home a scant two hours after he left, proud to be back early, knowing now there would be time left in the day for other man responsibilities. He unshouldered the fruit of his woodland meat harvest and dropped it at his doorway. A pretty, dark-eyed young woman emerged from the dwelling, casting an admiring glance at the slain deer and grateful eyes upon the young man. Two children, a boy and a girl, grinned happily and danced circles around what would soon become fresh meat over the evening fire and preserved meals for evenings to come.

The hunter's face was expressionless as he moved past the others and stepped inside the dwelling. Reverently setting his weaponry aside, he sat down facing east, toward the risen sun. There, in his way, he offered thanks to a higher power for the nourishing gift from Earth Mother's bounty.

The scene becomes hazy in my wandering mind as real-time reality returns. The vision fades, and once again I stand on the freshly plowed earth of a farmer's field, gazing wistfully at the bordering forest.

"It must have happened just that way," I whisper. "Let it be so, Lord."

But that thought quickly passes and I chide myself for praying foolish prayers. Turning away, I start homeward.

But my feet betray me. I pause once more. Then I open my hand to gaze at the young hunter's flint arrowhead resting in the palm.

(Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream. net)